


Modern Art

by patchwork_panda



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: AU, Coffee Shop, F/M, Sinja, Smut, fem!ja'far, fem!jafar, sinbad x ja'far, sinbad x jafar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1968846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchwork_panda/pseuds/patchwork_panda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cross-post from tumblr (patchwork-panda.tumblr.com). Originally written for the Magi Kink Meme.<br/>AU in which Sinbad is a professional painter suffering from artist's block. One day, he visits the local coffee shop to find people to draw, where Ja'far, a writer with a looming deadline, has also decided to stop by. This chance encounter leads to unexpected things for both of them...<br/>Warning! Last chapter contains smut. Do not read if you think your parents or roommates will walk in at any moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The pencil slowly fell from his mouth as she sat down at the table by the window, tucking her short hair behind her ear. The early afternoon sunlight illuminated the pale locks in a white halo around her head and he caught a glimpse of freckles scattered across her delicate features. Three tables away, Sinbad picked up his pencil from the table and grinned. She was by far the most interesting-looking person to have walked into this coffee shop in the last hour and he was determined to get a quick sketch of her before she left. He flipped the page on his sketchpad and began to draw.

Business in this part of town had been slow recently. This coffee shop, once a trendy, bustling hub frequented by business workers and weary college students alike, had slowly diminished to the likeness of a hidden storage closet occupied by only a few patrons at a time. It used to be that Sinbad could walk in here at any given time of day or night and find someone with unique features to draw. However, the steady flow of subjects, muses and conquests through the cafe began to dwindle to a trickle and the man was beginning to wonder if maybe he should try sketching in a different location when that young woman appeared.

What was it about her, he wondered, as the lines on his page quickly took on the rough form of a person’s head. There was something elegant about the way she moved, her motions deliberate and graceful. He watched her pull out a laptop from her messenger bag and set it on the table. Sinbad stopped sketching her head and instead scribbled in the likeness of her hands. Her fingers were so long and her nails, although clean, were free of the usual brightly colored polish he’d seen on most women her age. He watched those slender fingers fly across the keys of her laptop and waited for them to settle so he could get a better sketch.

Finally, she paused, deep in thought. Her hand slid over her mouth; her eyebrows furrowed. Beneath her reserved expression, there was something profound stirring in the dark depths of her eyes. Sinbad quickly flipped the page and started capturing this new image. What color were her irises? Brown? Black? His question was answered when she looked up and exchanged a glance with him, the corners of her mouth drawing upwards in a courteous smile before she looked back to her screen. Gray. Her eyes were gray, a beautiful stormy color so dark it might as well have been black. He switched his 2B pencil for a darker shade and filled in the eyes and lashes. She had seen him, but did she suspect that he had been sketching her all this time? How long had he been drawing her? His arm was getting tired. Bringing the chewed up end of the pencil back to his lips, Sinbad paused, crossing his arms and staring up at the ceiling as he slouched down in his cushy seat.

How long had it been since he had last been commissioned for a painting? It must have been ages. Even though he specialized in portraits, the last painting he had sold was a mid-sized scenery of a tropical island, a place that had recently begun to haunt him in his dreams. His scenery paintings were enough to help him make rent these days, but he longed to paint people again. He would love to have a new muse. The last woman Sinbad had painted left his room in tears when he told her that he thought they should see other people. It wasn’t personal. Somehow it always ended like this. He’d go to a park or a café to people-watch and find subjects to draw and there would always be a lovely young lady who was willing to go back to his apartment with him and let him paint her. That girl had been no different. He liked the way she looked and asked if he could use her as the subject of his next painting. He didn’t ask her to take off her clothes or sleep with him. The last words she’d hurled at him before running out were meant to wound him personally, but somehow, Sinbad couldn’t bring himself to feel too remorseful. Was it a crime to be drawn to pretty girls with nice figures?

A chatty pair of teenage girls sat down at the table next to the mysterious freckled woman and she frowned, a flicker of irritation flashing in her dark eyes. He glanced back down at his sketchbook, where inexplicably, a new drawing of the woman had blossomed on the page. He twisted a corner of his eraser into a small cone and erased the top lids of her eyes, redrawing them to reflect what he’d just observed. Sinbad looked back up to see her holding onto a pair of dark green headphones and plugging them into the laptop. The headphones snapped on over her ears and at once, a serene smile crossed her face. He scrambled to capture that fleeting expression before it disappeared, his pencil quickly scratching out the delicate lines of her lips. He can’t help but wonder what kind of music she’s listening to for her to make such a peaceful face.

The afternoon passed quickly, with the young woman typing away at her computer, pausing once in a while to take sips of her coffee and Sinbad completely fixated on her. What was she typing on that keyboard? Was she a blogger? Novelist perhaps? With a start, he realized he was running out of paper. He had filled up several pages with images of this ordinary, yet somehow striking person and his coffee had long since gone cold. But he could not stop drawing her. She wasn’t the typical buxom beauty that he liked to paint, but there was definitely something to be appreciated in the subtle curves beneath her loose-fitting cardigan and knee-length skirt. Tomorrow he would bring his pastels. Black and white graphite on paper would not do this bewitching creature justice.

Abruptly, she clicked her laptop shut and packed it away. She then picked up her cup of coffee and drained it before returning it to the counter. As she moved, the edges of her skirt flew up a little. Scars? Just when he thought this woman could not become more intriguing. Sinbad bent his head back down to finish one last sketch of her. Before she walked out that door, he would ask her to be his next muse. And he was prepared to use every last ounce of charm to convince her to say yes. His last drawing complete, Sinbad stood and opened his mouth to call out to her. But she was already gone. In fact, he was the last patron left in the café.

“I never even got her name..."

***

He spent that night tossing and turning, unable to sleep because he was too busy kicking himself mentally for not talking to the woman before she’d left. Why? Why had he been so focused on finishing the sketch before approaching her? Normally, when he wanted to pick up a muse, he would drop what he was doing and make his way over to her so they could have a chat, something that he instinctively knew they appreciated. But in her case, he’d been so distracted by the scars on her lovely legs that he was slow on the uptake, more eager to capture her likeness than her phone number. Who would have guessed that she could move so fast? She was like a freckled ghost with that white hair, pale skin and quiet demeanor. Who was she? And why did she appear before him so briefly just to vanish into thin air? The phantom’s pleasant smile haunted him throughout the night and into the morning, when he trudged face-first into a stop sign on the way to his part-time job.  
Maybe if he brought his pastels anyway, she might be back? And with that thought in mind, he went back to the coffee shop in the evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive woman. But she didn’t return. Not that day, nor the next. The days dragged on into weeks and somewhere along the way, Sinbad realized he had a problem. Recently, the sketches that had accumulated during his time in the café had lost their usual luster. Capturing even the simplest details became frustrating and drawing someone’s entire face had suddenly become a chore.

Once in a while, a cute girl would come up and ask to see what he was drawing as a pretense for talking to him. She’d always ask if he could draw her and smile charmingly. Almost desperate for new inspiration, Sinbad would agree, flirt back a little, and more often than not, she’d end up spending the night at his place but he’d never call her back. The sketches were all he needed of them. However, when he examined his work in the morning, he realized to his disgust that none of the depictions held that certain je-ne-sais-quoi that moved him to cover an entire canvas in something worthwhile. Worse still, it was getting to the point where none of these women could satisfy him sexually either. He was starting to suspect that this was the beginning of the end. 

His little ghost had firmly taken ahold of his imagination and now that he was in her grasp, she refused to him let go. She had cursed him, doomed him to this terrible cycle of choosing a woman, painting her, hating the painting, becoming depressed and going back to the café to find another subject. This was his punishment for daring to use her as a source of inspiration and letting her leave without saying a single word to her. How he wished he could at least have a name to go with the face that was slowing driving him to madness. Finally, unable to stay away but also unable to return to the café alone, Sinbad dragged his friend Masrur with him, after a month of the worst artist’s block he’d ever had.

“Thanks for coming along, Masrur,” Sinbad said, setting a large mug down in front of his friend.

“No problem,” the tall redhead mumbled, reaching for his drink. “I have night shift at the museum tonight anyway.”

Sinbad waited but Masrur didn’t say anything else. The painter sighed. His former roommate was as stoic as ever. Not that he was surprised. He wasn’t sure what he’d say either if any friend of his had been ranting his ear off about some girl they’d met at a coffee shop. He’d think they must have gone crazy... Did Masrur think the artist had lost his mind?

“Hey Masrur, I’m not being creepy, am I?” Sinbad asked, finally breaking the silence.

The man gazed at him thoughtfully.

“You are,” he said bluntly, sipping his coffee. “In fact, you’re becoming a little obsessive.”  
Sinbad hung his head in defeat. He could always count on Masrur to tell the truth, even if no one else would.

“What should I do?” he moaned. “I can’t stop thinking about her. She was amazing. There was something special about her, the way she carried herself. I have to draw her again, Masrur! If I don’t see her again soon, I don’t think I’ll be able to continue painting any more.”

“You could try Missed Connections,” Masrur suggested.

“Does anybody even check that?” And besides, what would he write? ‘Hey, you remember the tenth of last month? It was a Sunday afternoon and you didn’t notice me but I spent the whole afternoon staring at you and drawing pictures of you.’ Yeah, that would go real well.

“Then... Craig’s list.”

“That’s not funny.”

They sat in thoughtful silence for the next half hour, Sinbad racking his brains for some way to contact the mystery woman and Masrur simply enjoying his coffee. Then, much too soon for Sinbad’s taste, the quiet man opposite him stood and returned an empty coffee mug to the counter.

“You’re leaving already?” the artist sputtered.

“Yeah. Shift starts at nine.”

“Don’t leave me here by myself!”

“Can’t stay,” his stoic friend responded, pushing in his chair with a final clunk. “I have work. I hope you find the person you’re looking for.”

“Me too,” Sinbad sighed, resigning himself to another long night.

He flipped to a fresh page in the sketchbook, took a quick look around the café and abruptly put everything down. What was the point? If the phantom woman wasn’t going to show up, he might as well not bother. Masrur had confirmed what he already knew. Something was very, very wrong with Sinbad and he was determined to break the cycle tonight. No more selecting subjects he had no real interest in and no more taking any of them back to his apartment, no matter how cute they were.   
He was about to shove his pencils back into his bag when a flash of white caught his eye. 

He stood up with a loud clatter; his chair had nearly fallen over behind him. He didn’t know how she had slipped by him undetected, but there she was, finally gracing him with her presence again. 

There, at the counter, was the small, slight figure of a woman clothed in a simple cream-colored skirt, a forest green and black patterned cloth woven into the locks of her cropped white hair. As she walked past him, towards the same desk she’d occupied last time, he saw a flash of scars that climbed up the inside of her legs. When she pulled out the laptop and once again began to type, he knew.

His muse was back.


	2. Chapter 2

The woman by the window sighed heavily and let her chin sink onto her hands. This wasn’t working. The meeting with her editor was in less than twelve hours and here she was, back in this dilapidated little coffee shop, staring at a blank page. She came back to this part of town hoping for some peace and quiet and praying that she’d somehow manage to shine under pressure again, but inspiration still eluded her.

The publishers had raved about the last batch of short stories she submitted and her editor insisted that this time she write a novel. Excited by the prospect of finally becoming an established member of the literary community, Ja’far had jumped at the opportunity. Unfortunately, it had been nearly a month since then and she still had nothing to show for it. No plotline seemed good enough. This story couldn’t just be any old fluff piece; it had to be amazing. She wanted to write tales so fantastic that Ka Koubun, that smug bastard from the office, would be eating his own words for the rest of the year. But at this rate, he’d be the one feeding her words back to her. What was she going to do?

“Excuse me...”

Ja’far abruptly took her face out of her hands and looked up. There, standing barely two feet from her in a dark sweater and jeans was one of the most handsome men she’d ever laid eyes on. He was tall, with long dark hair tied in a low ponytail and small gold loops in each ear. She’d assume he was some kind of art student with that eccentric appearance, but he looked too old to still be in school. Maybe he’d already gone professional?

“Um, I was wondering...” the man began nervously, his hand going to his bangs.

The quiet woman suspiciously raised an eyebrow. She could count the number of guys who’d ever tried to hit on her on one hand. What was someone so good-looking doing talking to her? And why did he look so flustered and tongue-tied? If he was afraid of seeming rude, it didn’t matter to her. She was used to it.

“Were you looking for an extra chair?” Ja’far asked politely, gesturing at the empty seat opposite her. “I’m not expecting company so you can have this one if you need it.”

The man looked taken aback. 

“Oh. Uh, no, that’s not what I wanted to ask you,” he stammered, turning bright red. “I was wondering... I mean, would it be okay with you if--if I joined you?”

He wanted to sit with her?

“Sure,” she replied slowly, scrutinizing him. 

This place was mostly empty. He could sit anywhere he wanted and be left alone, which, by the looks of it, most of the other patrons had chosen to do. Or, he could have his pick of the lot. That one girl giggling at the counter was quite pretty. Why wasn’t he sitting with her? Ja’far’s eyes narrowed. Maybe this was some stunt; maybe he’d bet a friend that he could pick up that weird albino chick by the window. Or maybe he thought that Ja’far would be an easier target, given her bookish attire and the fact that she wasn’t as conventionally attractive. This man was clearly a lady-killer, used to getting what he wanted from silly young girls, but she was not going to be his next victim.

“You can sit here,” she declared, turning back to her laptop, “But I’m busy working on something and I need to concentrate. So if you want to share the table, you’ll have to be quiet.”

To Ja’far’s amazement, the man grinned like a little kid; he looked ecstatic. 

“That’s perfect, thank you so much!”

Without warning, he turned on his heel and ran off. Ja’far didn’t even have time to look confused before he rushed back from his table, a large bag swinging from his shoulder. She watched, fascinated as he took out a large sketchpad and a set of pastels.

“I’m an artist,” he explained, “And I was hoping I could sketch you while you work. You have such unique features.”

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?” she deadpanned, smirking in spite of herself.

“Huh?”

“Don’t guys like you usually tell girls that they’re ‘pretty’ or ‘cute?’ What do you mean by ‘unique?’”

Looks like she hit her mark. Ja’far watched with amusement as the man flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“It’s okay, I’m used to it.”

His eyes grew wide and his mouth went slack.

“But you shouldn’t be. You’re beautiful.”

This time, it was Ja’far’s turn to blush.

“Wh-what are you—” she sputtered, pushing her chair back. Oh, he was good. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think this guy was serious. Well she wasn’t going to fall for it.

“I’m sorry, I think I should go,” Ja’far declared, standing and reaching for her laptop.

“Please, wait!”

Before she could click her laptop shut, his hand shot out and grasped hers. She looked down at the man who had remained sitting, at his golden eyes, intense but imploring.

“Please,” he repeated, “Please stay. I know this seems a little weird, but I really do like the way you look and I would love to draw you. If you could give me even five minutes of your time today, I would really appreciate it.”

Ja’far studied him thoughtfully. This guy was trouble. Something about him threw her off and she didn’t like it. However, he did make for a very interesting character. Someone this smooth wouldn’t be too out of place in a fantasy novel, much like the one she wanted to write...

“Who are you?” Ja’far asked, slowly sitting back down in her chair.

“My name is Sinbad,” he responded, his hand only withdrawing from hers once she was fully back in her seat.

“And you are?”

She hesitated. Did she dare give him her real name? She studied him carefully. Somehow, she sensed she could trust him.

“Ja’far,” she said at last. “My name is Ja’far.”  
“Ja’far? That’s an unusual name.”

“Speak for yourself,” she huffed, once again reaching for her laptop.

“Wait, don’t go! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. Please stay?”

Ja’far flinched away before he could grab her hand again. She didn’t want him touching her. It made her feel weird and tingly and she didn’t like it.

“Okay, I’ll stay and sit with you. But don’t expect me to pay too much attention to you. Like I said before, I’m busy and I need to write something.”

“That’s fine,” Sinbad responded. “It’ll be easier for me to draw you if you sit still anyway.”

Ja’far turned back to her laptop and he to his paper and they sat in near-silence, the only sounds from their table the subtle scratching of a pencil against paper and the clicking of computer keys. Ja’far found her eyes wandering around the room while she thought of things for her story and somehow, she found her gaze settling on him. Their eyes met and she immediately looked back to her screen. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she was admiring him. 

But he did have the sort of air she was looking for. Tall, dark, and handsome, the look the readers might expect of a dashing hero. It would be more interesting if he were the sort of person who, although strong, could talk his way out of trouble when he could, rather than fight. An adventurer of sorts... Slowly, she began to flesh out a fictionalized version of him and the beginnings of a prologue bloomed on the page before her.

The next time her gaze inevitably slid back towards him, he looked at her thoughtfully and grinned.

“Are you writing about me?” he asked a teasing lilt in his voice.

A small secretive smile darted across her face before vanishing, rare and fleeting like a shooting star. It was cute, Sinbad thought to himself.

“Maybe.”

SHE was cute.

“Do that again,” he whispered, leaning closer to her.

“Huh?”

She stared at him blankly. The moment was gone and she had no idea what he was talking about.

“Never mind,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. Ja’far gave him a confused look and then shrugged, moving on with her story. 

They each looked away, Ja’far now fully absorbed in her writing while Sinbad, unbeknownst to her was gradually spending more time looking at her than at his sketches. When the shopkeeper finally came over to kick them out so they could close up, she started and looked at the clock on her screen. Midnight?! How was that even possible?

“Is it that late already?” she exclaimed, scrolling up her page. 

Miraculously, the character that had taken shape in her mind had been transferred beautifully to the document. There wasn’t as much material as she would have liked but it was definitely interesting. With this, she would have enough to show her editor tomorrow and get an extension; she’d love where Ja’far was going with this. The novelist smiled again, to Sinbad’s delight, but before he could pick up his pencil, the shopkeeper coughed meaningfully and the disgruntled artist was forced to start packing.

“You know, this was fun,” Sinbad said carefully, as he shoved his belongings into his bag. “Do you maybe want to do this again sometime?” He would give up his left kidney to be shown that mysterious smile again.

“Yes,” Ja’far heard herself answer.

“Yes? Really?” Sinbad exclaimed as Ja’far’s hands flew over her mouth in shock. She’d spoken before she even had time to think.

“That’s wonderful! Thank you so much, Ja’far.”

He looked like he was about to hug her, but before he could, she backed away and held out a finger threateningly at him.

“But if you turn out to be boring, we’re calling this whole thing off. Okay?”

“I promise you, that won’t happen.”

Unfortunately, when she went to meet him at his apartment the next day, she nearly fainted from the shock of seeing such a mess. Dishes had piled up in the sink to the point where they were spilling over onto the counter and floor. There was curry or spaghetti sauce everywhere, the couch and living room were littered with half-finished sketches and the floors were blanketed in clothes. Sinbad was forced to spend the entire afternoon cleaning up so Ja’far would have a place to sit, his muse berating him all the while. He would never forget the disgusted look she shot him as she treaded carefully around a pair of leaf-printed boxers. At least all the underwear on the floor was his today... By the time they finished, the sun had nearly set and Ja’far could feel her stomach growling.

“Hey, I just ordered take-out,” Sinbad said, popping his head into the transformed living room where an exhausted Ja’far was lying on the couch with her laptop on her stomach.

“I see. Thank you, and good work today,” she said, smiling wearily. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

Sinbad took her place on the couch as the door clicked shut behind her. As he waited for her to come back, the glowing screen on the table drew his attention. That thing was always in her hands; she even kept coming back to it while they were straightening up this afternoon. What *was* she writing about? He had only been joking about her writing about him, but maybe that was why she had agreed to meeting him again today. Just a peek wouldn’t hurt, would it? Just to satisfy his curiosity...

“You know, you’re running out of—” Ja’far started as she walked back into the room. Her sentence died on her lips as she saw him reclining in her spot, reading the outline of Chapter One. At the sound of her voice, Sinbad looked up.

“Oh, Ja’far. I have a question for you: why am I a girl in this story?”

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Reading your story. It’s interesting! Are you a professional writer?”

“It’s not done!” she exclaimed, diving for her laptop.

She was fast, but he was faster. The laptop swung just out of her reach and she lost her balance, landing awkwardly on the couch. She pushed herself up on her arms and found herself staring straight into Sinbad’s eyes.

She inhaled sharply, her throat suddenly dry. His lips were so close to hers. Slightly chapped, but they looked inviting enough. Oh no. What was she thinking?

“I have to go,” she whispered. 

And before Sinbad could stop her, she’d grabbed her bag and raced out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

What was wrong with her? Sliding down in her seat until her head was below the window, she threw a hand over her eyes and groaned. She’d left in such a panic that the bus had taken her half-way back to her apartment by the time she realized she’d left her laptop at his place. How was she going to go back for it?

It was already past sunset and she’d be crazy to go anywhere but the safety of her own apartment at this hour. Who knew what kind of weirdos she might run into at the bus stop on the way back? Sinbad probably couldn’t drive her back. In a way, he was a “starving artist” just like her and she doubted he could afford a car, especially with parking and gas prices these days. If she went back, she’d have to stay the night and there was no way in hell she was doing that. Who knew what might happen if she got too close to him again? Just the memory of his face being so close to hers made her turn beet red.

She’ll go back to her apartment tonight and return for the laptop tomorrow, no matter how humiliated she felt.

Meanwhile, Sinbad was glued to the couch, Ja’far’s laptop in his hands. He’d seen this all before: that startled look, that faint blush and the way her breath hitched in her throat. Was his lovely muse falling for him, just like all the women before her? Maybe it was because of how she reacted to him at their first meeting, but he hadn’t really considered the possibility of this particular girl becoming attracted to him. And now that it was happening...

Not knowing what else to do, he placed his thumb on the down key and continued to read. The story so far was really good and honestly, he had no problem being portrayed as a woman, especially such a beautiful and charismatic one. He grinned and sped through the rest of the document. Ja’far’s writings were giving him an idea...

The next morning, a very sleep-deprived and embarrassed-looking Ja’far turned up on his doorstep.

“I came back for my laptop,” she said stiffly, staring down the hallway at nothing. Before he could invite her in, she pushed past him and went straight for the coffee table, where her laptop was lying next to a cold pot of tea. Yawning, Sinbad followed her into the living room.

“I’m sorry I ran off so suddenly last night,” she mumbled as she stuffed the laptop back into her messenger bag. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I went home.”

“That’s alright,” Sinbad said gently. “Do you think you could stay for a bit? I want to show you something.”

“No, thanks. I want to get going.”

She was about to walk out of the living room when something deep red caught her eye. On her right, where the TV used to be, was a beautiful set up of satiny drapes and lush cushions. The rich-looking fabric spilled over the bookshelves and onto the floor, where synthetic flower petals blanketed the ground. The composition was magnificent. Smiling, Sinbad strode over to the large sliding glass door on the far wall and pulled back the blinds. Ja’far gasped. As the morning sunlight filled the room, the entire display glowed as if he had set it on fire. She slowly turned to him and was startled to see a mug of tea in his hands. He held it out to her.

“What’s going on?”

“I never got to paint you yesterday. I’m really sorry we had to spend the whole afternoon cleaning. I should’ve done that earlier.”

Mutely, she accepted the tea and sat down on the couch.

“I still really want to paint you. Do you mind staying for just an hour or two?”

Ja’far looked back to the set-up and then at him.

“Sure.”

But she stayed for more than an hour. They talked over lunch and to Sinbad’s joy, Ja’far agreed to come back in two days to sit for his painting. And she didn’t just come back that day. She came back the week after that and the one after that... Eventually, she was coming over any day she had a spare moment and gradually, an image of her, smiling mysteriously and reclining on the pile of cushions, came to life on the canvas.

And then one day, when she walked in, she noticed the bright red set-up had been switched for a deep green and blue one. The lights had been moved around and there were fake tropical plants all along the far wall. The chair she usually sat in was gone and the cushions on the ground had been replaced with a stretch of elaborately etched tiles on a rubber mat.

“I thought we could start a new painting today, since the last one is done,” he said, gesturing to the mid-sized canvas drying out on the balcony. Ja’far had to admit: even from here, it looked good. Did she really look that pretty? When she came back inside, he presented her with a flowing, white garment.

“What is this?” she asked, turning it over in her hands. So far she’d always posed in a tank top and skirt, as he had requested, with yards of fabric draped over her like robes so he could get the shape of her limbs right. She frowned. This outfit was a lot more revealing than what she was used to.

“I read your story,” he admitted sheepishly, “The night you left your laptop here. I really liked it and it gave me the idea for that set-up over there and the one before.”

Ja’far was flattered, but not enough that she’d put this on by itself. As if reading her thoughts, Sinbad continued.

“Would you mind wearing this over your regular clothes? I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable and this would still give the image I’m looking for.”

The novelist stared at the cloth in her hands.

“You want to paint me... as a dancer?”

“Well, yes...”

Ja’far looked up and saw a large, bright red flower in his hands. He reached over and placed it in her hair, tucking it behind her ear. His touch was warm.

“Is that okay with you?”

Suddenly, she couldn’t look at him properly. She couldn’t remember if anybody had ever smiled at her like that before and she felt the lingering heat from his hands slowly spread across her face. Gingerly, she brought her fingertips to the petals and smiled, amused by the look of anticipation on his face. 

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

After an intense half hour of sketching, Sinbad let out a breath and gestured to Ja’far to put her arms back down. The other pose had been easy. The lady just had to lie back on the cushions and relax. Half the time, she had been scribbling down ideas for her story on scratch paper. This time, she had to stand and pose, and Sinbad had to give his poor muse time to rest every five minutes so that her positioning looked natural. But he could tell she was getting into it. She was smiling and laughing more and it took his breath away to see her looking so happy. She was radiant.

Ja’far had planned to spend a good chunk of her day off with Sinbad but not quite this much. She was so busy enjoying their time together that she didn’t realize how late it was getting. To be fair, she was getting used to having meals with him during their painting sessions, like they were today.

But something felt different this time. She bit her lip as she watched his retreating back disappear behind the kitchen door. He had really nice, broad shoulders and a part of her wanted to run her hands over them, to feel the muscle that rippled underneath that loose shirt. Her eyes followed him hungrily as he walked past her and sat down on the couch, examining his painting.

“Hey, can I see what you’ve got so far?” Ja’far asked, making her way over to him. She slowly slid her arms over his shoulders, her hands hanging loosely in front of his chest.

Sinbad tensed. His tongue had inexplicably been turned to lead and the room felt much warmer with her leaning on him like this. Was she even aware of how sultry her movements have become? His heartbeat pounded dully in his ears and he could feel his undershirt sticking to his chest. He should adjust it, but that would disturb Ja’far and that was the last thing he wanted. Carefully, he turned to look at her and felt all the moisture in his mouth evaporate as he stared into her dark eyes.

“I’m still just getting started,” he chuckled at last, not daring to move any further.

“Funny,” she whispered. “So am I.”

The subtle, throaty rasp in her voice made the hairs on Sinbad’s neck stand on end and before he could even say her name, her lips were upon his.

***

The world shrank until there was nothing left but her and her lips. They felt so soft as they moved against his but all too soon, it was over. Ja’far pulled back with a satisfied sigh, her arms still draped around his neck. Sluggishly, Sinbad put the painting back down on the table and placed his hand on her cheek, staring at her like he’d never seen her before. When their eyes met, they knew there was no going back.

At once, Ja’far yanked him up by the neck of his shirt, kissing him deeply while Sinbad stumbled to his feet, standing on the couch. He grabbed her around the waist and clumsily helped her over the back of the couch and onto his lap as he sat holding her. Her fingers tightened their grip, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt, and she pulled hard to bring his body closer to hers, savoring his lips.

It was all Sinbad could do to keep up with her. God, she was delicious. Who could have guessed quiet, reserved Ja’far was so full of passion? Whenever he broke away for air, she merely gasped and pulled him right back in, leaving his head spinning from the taste of her. Ja’far didn’t want to breathe; she wanted more of his lips, more of his touch, more, so much more. The painting lay all but forgotten on the table as his hands went to her breasts, sliding underneath her clothes and giving them a good squeeze. He could practically hear her purring with pleasure as she nibbled at his ear.

She pulled his shirt over his head, threw it over the side of the couch and licked his bare skin, devouring his neck and chest in quick kisses before he groaned and pushed her down. Ja’far’s growl of frustration turned into a gasp as he gave her nipples a soft pinch. A quick twist of his fingers and her back arched in pleasure, the pinkish buds now hard and sensitive. The muscles in her legs tightened as he continued to play with her breasts and an aroused sigh escaped her lips.   
She felt his tongue tracing the edges of her scars as he kissed his way up her inner thigh. The light touches against her skin tickled and she squirmed, an involuntary giggle escaping her. Sinbad looked at her, his amber eyes glinting with amusement and she gasped in embarrassment and immediately looked away, blushing furiously. He placed a light kiss below her belly-button and proceeded to take her panties off with his teeth. Slowly, the lacy fabric slid down her legs and Ja’far felt Sinbad’s strong fingers gripping her thighs, bringing her up to a sitting position. Confused, she looked back down just in time to see his smirking face disappear beneath her skirt.

Immediately, a fierce heat erupted in her skin where he brought his lips to hers and she whimpered and twisted in his grasp as he carefully teased her folds, each well-placed lick making her legs tingle and setting her nerves on fire. The excitement of not being able to see what he was doing amplified the sensations and Ja’far bit down on her own fingers to muffle her voice. She couldn’t believe the sounds coming out of her mouth. Being made to ride his face like this felt so dirty, and with every rough stroke of his tongue, her thighs grew slicker from her own juice. Breathless and shaking, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain her sanity. What was left of her composure slipped away entirely when he brought his lips together to suck on her and she let out a tiny shriek.

She gripped his arm tightly and Sinbad stopped and looked up, his face as flushed as hers.

“Bed,” she demanded.

No other explanations were needed. He scooped her up and carried her to his room, where Ja’far immediately unzipped his pants and shoved her hands in his boxers. They fell into bed before their clothes even hit the ground. As he leaned over her, Sinbad took a moment to enjoy the view. Her ample chest heaving, her cheeks bright pink and her eyes hooded, she was a sight to behold. Ja’far trailed her hands down his chest, admiring the smoothness of his muscles and she bit her lip impatiently, parting her legs for him. He smoothed her mess of white hair from her forehead and planted a kiss on her cheek as he entered her.

Ja’far cried out, digging her nails into his back as he moved inside her. His flesh burned against hers and she could feel his breath, hot and labored, on her neck. His long hair tickled her as it slipped out of its ponytail and she ran her fingers through the smooth dark locks, whispered his name into his ear. He picked up the pace and soon the room was filled with wet, lewd noises as he slipped in and out of her. Ja’far sank her teeth into his shoulder, tasting salt from his sweat, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp. But when he hit *that* spot, her moans turned into screams. Her legs clamped down around his waist and she gave in with wild abandon, all thoughts of disturbing the neighbors obliterated by sheer pleasure. Sinbad thought he was going crazy. The way she molded her body to his and moved with him was incredible; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. The bed creaked dangerously as he repeatedly hit his target until Ja’far felt her body spasm in an intense climax. Shortly after, Sinbad shuddered and collapsed on top of her, panting from the exertion. They carefully untangled themselves and as Ja’far closed her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, Sinbad woke up and rolled over to find no one sleeping next to him. Once again, his muse had vanished like a ghost. Had it all been a dream? He sat up with a groan and went for the bathroom to clean himself up. The artist stopped in his tracks when he saw the bright green post-it note stuck on the door. The neat, tidy handwriting was definitely Ja’far’s, but what caught his attention and made him grin ear to ear was the last sentence, circled in red.

“Same time tomorrow?”


End file.
